


Mary Sues Strike Again

by Zoya1416



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Mary Sues Need SEX, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 06:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6970684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mary Sues have chosen the Discworld for their entertainment, and have an avatar to stir things up.<br/>Or, the author didn't want to write a heart-felt May 25th because it was too tear-making, and instead wrote slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mary Sues Strike Again

**Author's Note:**

> Havelock has some mild fantasies about non-consent, if that worries you.

...The earth was without form, and void, and darkness was on the face of the deep. And the spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.

And God said, Let there be a turtle, and there was a turtle...

The view pans in quickly from the space turtle, who supports four elephants, who—look, if you don't know where you are, why don't you go back to the Potterverse or the Johnlocks.

“Nothing the matter with Johnlock!” says a multitude of voices just loud enough to be irritating.

“Nor the Potterverse, either.”

“Nor the LOTR—” and there are louder voices which say, “Focus! We are here on the Discworld—” 

And the viewpoint swoops in on the inevitable—Ankh-Morpork, the largest, richest city on the Disc, the most odoriferous, the city with 100,000 souls and ten times that many people...

“Quit wasting time!” hiss still louder voices. 

“Why? They're not going anywhere until we get there.” Another group is about to argue, when a louder “Ah-hem!” comes from the apparent designated leader. A forty-ish plump to overweight woman? A spike-haired teenager who's overdosed on Game of Thrones for a week and wants to drop in on the Disc doings? A woman, neither fat nor thin, who remembers the day of the lilac and wants to honor it—apparently by writing slash about the two strongest male figures—and no, we're not talking about Carrot and Vimes here, although that is an overlooked tasty pairing...

“Focus, women!” Let's say women. 

Then the scene swoops in further to what appears to be a proscenium stage in which two men grapple—one is shorter, but more muscular, brown-haired. He's dressed strangely, in gilt armor which does not seem to fit his persona. The other is a taller, paler man with a black robe of office swirling around him.

The men have their hands on each other's shoulders, and there is strain and movement there. It's not quite clear what's happening. The men seem to be pushing each other away, or perhaps pulling each other in, or perhaps more reasonably, one pushing the other away, while the other attempts to pull in.

It seems to be the last.

Except that—the brown-haired man in gilt seems to be fighting himself, trying to push his own hands back, while his fingers dig into the other's shoulders.

The brown one—oh, for gods' sakes, let's name them.

Sam Vimes seems to be pushing away and dragging in Havelock Vetinari at the same time. Vetinari for his part is pulling, not in an exaggerated or childish way, but inexorably, on Vimes' shoulders and seems about to win. If win means Vetinari's throat is slowly tipping backwards as Vimes' mouth is headed for “that alabaster column.” (Apparently Mary Sues like a bit of purple in their prose.)

Almost, almost, there, the mouth is just at that point where shoulder meets neck, and the tension pleases the avatar Mary Sue, who is the only one in the audience, and gives out a teensy squeak. The noise distracts the men, or at least Vimes, and he drops his arms, right hand landing on the sword he always carries.

“Who's there?” As a matter of fact, there are more questions available. “Where am I and what am I doing with him?” also come to mind but they seem—embarrassing. He hasn't had a memory problem like that since he promised Sybil he'd stopped drinking. Speaking of Sybil:

“Were you trying to kiss me just now?” Vimes demands of Vetinari.

“Mmm, no, I think it was going the other way. I believe that you were bending your mouth towards my neck, the better to mark me as your lover, so that everyone knows you have overpowered the Patrician of the City.” Vetinari has his hand on the right side of his neck, covering it.

“What—lover?” Sam is shocked with horror as he looks at Vetinari, who still has his neck inclined backwards, and there _are_ purple marks. “I have no lover! Especially not men, and especially not—” His mouth slams shut as he realizes that a reasonable man wouldn't yell at his boss that way.

Except that this boss keeps “rewarding” him in such unpleasant ways it keeps him off guard. He should shut up—next time he might be promoted—all the way to glory, as they say.

But—he looks down at his gilt armor, and realizes, “I can't be anyone's lover! I'm married to Sybil. And there is no universe in which...”

“Ah-hem!” The interjection by Vetinari stops him, but Vetinari has glanced somewhere out from the stage, and is glaring.

“Don't tempt them!” He hisses at Vimes.

“Who—”

“Them. The them from somewhere else who think we're fictional and who write new roles for us. If you say, “in no universe,” they will find such a universe, and you might find your soul looking out the eyes of a werewolf.*  
Or wearing spandex.”**

“Span—?”

*Done.  
**Also done. 

“Commander Vimes, please don't waste our time. They are going to change things again, and we don't have much of it.”

“I can't be your lover,” Vimes said, while part of his mind notices that he's not saying he doesn't _want_ to be Havelock Vetinari's lover. “I'm married to Sybil—”

“Too late,” murmurs Vetinari.

The stage darkens momentarily, and when lights come up again, there are two young men, possibly even boys, who have their hands on each other. This time it's the taller one, who's still all dressed in black, who rears back from the other in disgust.

“I know you! You're that boy from Cockbill Street who helps carry away our trash!”

The very young Sam Vimes gets in a short choke hold when his hands move from shoulders to close on the neck, and then he's disabled by a classic dirty fighting move. They knock each other to the street, and although they're lying next to each other, fighting, it's clear there will be no kissing going on. Or will there? The very young Vetinari suddenly puts his mouth over Sam's. Tastes, and discards.

“Yes, you do taste like you come from Cockbill Street.” Vetinari shoves himself up and off, and runs away, while Sam sits up, pulls his knees to his chest, and presses his head to his knees. He has to get out of his present rut, but...how? In the screen version, a handbill reading, “We want YOU in the WATCH!”* will flap by and wrap itself around his knees.  
*Nineteen dollars to month to start, and you have to repair your own armor. But it's a step up.

The Mary Sue is now frustrated. Two tries, and very little going on. No matter what Lord Vetinari thinks, their net (call it a net) isn't free of energy demands, and if something doesn't happen soon...the audience might not even stop at going back to the major fandoms. The Vorkosiverse is a good hang-out for military/space opera fans, and offers multiple opportunities for slashing, from humorous to profound.

Even the teeny-tiny Rivers of London fandom has a goodly number of pounding-the sheets fic, with only a few characters, and only two particularly slashable.

“But it's not about pounding the sheets!” All the little voices start stabbing the back of their avatar's head, giving her a headache. “It's about connection, imagining scenes with the most powerful characters in series whose authors never heard the words, 'Bechdel test fail.' And it's not about stupid test-failures, either! It's a lot of fun, and you all know it!

She's losing control. They've even forced her!!— _her!!_ To a double exclamation mark.

There is a time, there is a particularly fruitful time—ah, short, but extremely promising, and the stage lightens again with a man in muddy brown armor confronting a Patrician who seems drained, and, not quite daunted, but one who has been having unpleasant experiences which would daunt others.

“So you don't want the reward for slaying the dragon? It's typically half the king's fortune and his daughter's hand in marriage. A $50,000 reward was posted. I don't have a daughter, and if I did, she would be much too young for you, Captain Vimes.”

This Vetinari is still a master of subterfuge, throwing the balls into the air so that no one will notice the seven knives which are about to be added, or indeed, offering an offensive proposition so that the viable just-under-the table one will be overlooked.

Vimes just glares at him, not even bothering to open his mouth. So Vetinari, still seeking the control he feels slipping, drawls, “You have been in Scoone Avenue, I perceive.”

This is not taken either. “How? Was the stench of unpleasantly made money, or the chemicals from the swamp dragons?”

“The swamp dragons. I am intimately familiar with their smell.”

“Intimately? I thought that Sybil was still a choice for...you know...well, I didn't know she had...was it you who?...”

 _This_ time, _this_ time the Patrician loses control. The one time he can think of. He's around his desk in a flash, grabbing Vimes by the shoulders and shaking the heavier man. It's only surprise that catches Vimes off guard—you never think about the owner of multiple knives wanting to confront someone physically, and then Vetinari has him on leverage, rocking him.

 _“Don't_ mock _Lady_ Ramkin! She is the person I respect most in the city! She's, she's...”

Vetinari cuts himself off after a single awful sentence, and turns his back to Vimes.

“Did she turn you down, or did you not offer?”

Vetinari's shoulders refuse to obey him, for the space of one shudder. “I wanted to offer for her. She was the perfect woman in so many ways...but the swamp dragons were—I hated them. I still do. They—they were only a tiny part, one I could point to. But talking to Sybil when she has that intensity of “my ancestors have lead armies for five hundred years,” is nothing compared with the sweet, kind, patronizing expression she has when she's sure you're wrong and will admit it presently.” Vetinari took another deep breath. “Both ways ended up making me grind my teeth instead of wanting to marry her.”

“She asked _me_ to marry her. Or as good as asked.”

“Let me be the first to congratulate you on your happiness. Also to your new role as the wealthiest man in the city.”

“What?”

“She won't keep the money, you know. She'll give it to you the minute you've signed your name on the license, and there it is. _You_ are the one responsible for all five hundred years of that plunder, plus the interest, plus the income from the estates. She didn't tell you about the estates? Well, she has several in the country, each of them golden cash machines as well. Good move from Cockbill Street, Captain Vimes!”

“I didn't say yes.”

Silence, then: “Whyever not? Do you think you can find another woman as loving or rich?”

The bitterness of Vetinari's voice moves Vimes away from his present uneasy self-contemplation.

“You loved her. You did love her; still do? You did ask her, and she turned you down.”

Continued silence.

“Look, I'm not sure why I didn't answer her. Part of it is, as you said, the weight of five hundred years of Ramkins compressing the air in the room. Part of it is...part of it is...I don't know why, but I left there—and came down here.”

“Why?”

This time it's Vimes who puts a finger to his lips and cuts his eyes audience-ward. 

“I couldn't think why I wanted to come here, but I seem—to have known you—in another, another—time? Or place? I don't know how. But I know that if I go back up the hill to her, I'll never come here again. To see you.”

“Except for weekly reports, more often if there are crises—”

It's Sam who grabs the Patrician's shoulders. The same Patrician it doesn't do well to move quickly around, and indeed, the one whose hand is still reaching for an illegal belt knife—whom you have just reached out and grabbed and kissed. 

And the energy changes. You feel—want. Denial. Sweat on the palms of your hands. The feel of his fine-boned head, hair not oily as you thought it might be, but only cut very well, so each hair lies in its proper place. 

Could you do it again? Do you want to? Do you want to look in his eyes, or not? Fearful of finding—what? Disdain? Pity? Desire to dump you right now into that scorpion-rat-snake pit? (not yet pruned from Lupine Wonse's excesses).

You look. 

He wants.

He takes a single thumb and rubs some of the dust from your face, then offers you his arm. Not his hand, that would be too equal. No, his arm, as though you were a little old lady. You grab his elbow, in the hustle-up-and-we'll go move, and then realize you have no idea where to go.

He laughs, just once, low, and then he turns and makes a complicated gesture with his hand, at the place where there is presumably—still? An audience. The stage turns black.

Mary Sue flops back, somewhat pleased, but intensely disappointed that more is coming that she won't get to see. This is not to be borne!! Another double exclamation mark, gods damn them.

Let me see, she thinks, and then concentrates on shrinking herself to mouse size, indeed, into a mouse, without losing her human nature. The MouSe follows the two men to another place, where she can't get the visual, being too tiny, but there is still the audible... 

“Do you actually want to be here, Sam? Here with me?”

“I—that's the first time you've used my first name.”

An exasperated sound. “Use mine, first, last, title, whatever you please—although if you use my title, and I only use your first name, that would admit interesting differences in our positions of power—mmph!” 

“I want. And I don't care about your name. Here all names are...gray in the dark.”

“Sit here then. And you can start by taking off your armor.”

“As long as you start by taking off that black robe. I've wondered for a long time, and see, here's the thing, I think I've known you much longer than I possibly could. Them again?”

“Possibly.” The voice is muffled by a pull of fabric.

“That is—quite a nice suit. I'm surprised you keep it hidden with a robe.”

“The robe is traditional.”

“You next. That shirt.”

“Yours.”

The sound is of rough cotton meeting soft silk, as neither one seems to want to take anything else off yet. Boots seem to be, yes, are unbuckled and pushed off. She can smell them. Then the mattress is compressed slightly--she can smell the unventilated smell from it into her nostrils. Are they sitting? Lying down? She can't tell. Then—one gives a sigh as—

This won't do at all, the MouSe thinks. I must see.  
She concentrates on reaching a wash cabinet with a jug and basin on top, and peers down from that. The brown body is now clear of tunic but still wearing his trousers as if he doesn't know what to do. He's sitting on the mattress, looking away from the bed.

There is a pause, and the energy changes again.

Vetinari: “Pull your trousers down and take them off.”

Vimes: “Don't you think _you_ should take something off, now?”

Silence. Vimes has turned to stare at the bed. The man on the bed is completely bare, completely naked, having gotten that way without making a sound. He lifts a hand, and Vimes, still in trousers, moves closer to Vetinari.

“I—I'm going to look at you. All of you. I never see anything of you, you're covered wrist to shoulder in black, ankle to waist, all your trunk...is this why you cover up so much? These—marks? These are whip marks, burn marks. I see them every time we have an escaped slave. But you were never a slave, from a distinguished family, so I heard.”

“Something the same. Strip for me.” The nude, unresisting, and undefended body of Vetinari shows his whip marks openly, lies with one hand behind his head, and still commands. 

(The MouSe approves. She can smell the little difference in body odor. There was shame in Vetinari when Vimes first looked at his marks. Vetinari knew Vimes was pitying him, and it made him angry and ashamed. But he didn't show it. Only his glands reacted.)

He's very casual, perhaps, thinks Vimes, unless you think, no, are sure, that the one hand you can't see has a knife. But he slowly pulls down his trousers and then, more quickly, his underthings, and hesitates.

“Lie down here. Next to me.”

The MouSe can tell that Captain Vimes has decided, in that moment, to let the (nude, undefended) Patrician direct things.

As soon as Vimes lies down, Vetinari swings himself up to rest on top, and pulling both Vimes' hands up with him, in a surprise move. 

“I am not going to bind you. But hold here, on this rail—you will hold here.” It's the same commanding voice, still ordering and expecting to be obeyed.

She can see that Vimes is the one whose head is going back, and the Patrician is leaning in, for several hard kisses indeed, on the neck, and down to the collarbone.

Then Vetinari moves his hand down smoothly over Vimes chest, and settles over Vimes' right breast.

“Here? Nothing for you here, I'm not a woman, do you like flat-chested men? Oh!” As Vetinari's fingers circle the nipple and pinch in.

Vimes gives up control, (although only part-way, she knows) and now he sees where that takes him. The nipple is so sharp and tender, how could he not know his body felt like that? Then he remembers that when he's had a spare, private moment, he's concentrated on more easily responsive parts of his body. Not on this unsuspected one. The left breast and nipple are also tweaked, and then—there is the moisture and heat of Vetinari's mouth on his nipple. And tiny, tiny bites, which threaten ever so slightly to really hurt. He's getting hard, not from these tiny kisses only, but also from the lack of control, lack of knowing what will happen. It isn't clear where Vetinari is going next, up or down, and now Vetinari's arm comes back up to pin his arms above his head, with real strength. He is licked suddenly along his inner thigh. (Those arms and trunk are much longer than his, and appear very flexible.) Muscles jump there. Then Vetinari's free hand compresses and strokes his thigh, and moves onto his cock.

Someone else's hand on his cock isn't completely a new feeling, and if it had never happened before, he wouldn't have come back to the Patrician's Palace with a troubled mind. He has been with another man before. Two other men, actually, for short bits of time. Another man simply knows more about how a cock moves and feels than a woman does, and what to try—a simple up and down movement is effective today, as is the thumb rubbing quickly over the tip and gathering some moisture for the next flick. It's familiar enough, though, that he can relax and enjoy someone else doing the work. 

Until there is a shift of weight next to him, and he feels the slight rub of the Patrician's beard, as Vetinari's mouth opens over him, lips compressing around him, actually licking the very tip of him. He starts to jump up but the arm pressing his arms isn't letting him go. The mouth around him isn't completely a new feeling, either, although it's only happened once before, and with a woman he'd paid to please him. He had been very angry, and very alone, and very young, and had seen a man killed before him for the first time, and just wanted—to be somewhere else, in a bed with nothing to do except to have this unknown woman please him. She hadn't tried to restrain him though.

For a few minutes there are the see-sawing mattress noises which are always heard, with more grunting and a slight whine from him, as he is thrusting up into a mouth, and can't move. He feels the tightening and rush inside, and he tries to break away, not spill himself inside another man's mouth. It doesn't work, and Vetinari catches him, although in a very quick movement—he can tell Vetinari is quietly spitting into a towel.  
He approves of this. It's what he himself would do if he were in this position—and he stops thinking quickly, because of the damn narrativium they seem to be in.*  
*(NB: narrativium also supplies instant cleaning as needed)

The MouSe snickers to herself. Damn fine idea, having each of them under _her_ control and deciding who would do what to whom, where, when, and how.

The screen darkens again.

“Put Vimes in control. Put him demanding Vetinari to do something—degrading, yes, that's right, do that!!!” Insistent voices who aren't satisfied with one passage between the two.

“Shut the holy crap up! I'm losing control as it is, and they may get away altogether.”

When Vimes awakens, for however many minutes or hours it takes him to revive, Vetinari is lying on one elbow watching him sleep. 

The Patrician speaks. “Awake, are you? Now it's my turn to ask for something.”

“You didn't exactly ask before you pounced on me.”

“Pounced to give you exactly what you wanted. Now I need something from you.”

“Oh?”

The polished voice is lower, rougher, and shaky. It sounds as if part of Vetinari's voice is determined to escape, while another is pulling it back.

“Use me as a woman.”

 _“What?_ What the crap do you mean?” Vimes doesn't really comprehend it.

“Use me. Take me—put yourself—take me as a woman. I'll show you how.”

Before Vimes can even blink, Vetinari—Havelock—it must be Havelock now—shows Vimes the inevitable set-up, from prep to cleaning, to how a pillow should be placed. 

Then the tall man, with the whip-marks no one knew he had, rolls to his stomach, and puts his head on the sheets, waiting. 

Vimes places his hand on Havelock's back, running his hand all the way from the nape of the neck to the the arse and clutches the arse, hard. Havelock shivers a bit, still pressing his head to the bed. As in a dream, he does what Havelock has shown him a few minutes earlier, and doesn't really awaken again until he realizes that his cock is alive and eager, and filling Havelock's arse like, like—like the stallion he saw one time, mounting a mare. Or like, let's say like a dog. Like a dog fucking some anonymous bitch. 

Like—just fucking. Like just fucking a man he's never seen before, whose name he doesn't know and doesn't want to know...  
For the first few minutes of rutting he doesn't know where he is, who's under him—he doesn't even want to know, wishes the man were someone anonymous, someone he'd never see again. But he's fucking his boss, the man who could order him taken to the Tanty and hanged for this violation. 

It's not working. He stops.

“What?” says Havelock.

“Can't we—change somehow? Let me see you? Let us see face-to-face? I want to see you.”  
(Ah, see how the pale man obeys you, rolls to his back, spreads his legs below you, spreads them as far as you want, as obscenely far as you can command, then see how the legs have to put themselves over your shoulders, in as abject a position as you can imagine, opening wide, wide, undefended to you so you can take him, “use him like a woman,” as he has asked. ) 

They shift. It takes a minute, and then Havelock is happy to feel Samuel entering him again. 

(Ah, the stories the MouSe can force Vimes to imagine—yes, he _is_ Captain Vimes and he has an anonymous prisoner brought before him...to be used...no? Really no? Just a fantasy...Dammit, okay, no, because she's starting to lose Vimes again).

Samuel protests, “I can't.”

“What?” definitely rough, somehow broken.

“I can't—do you. It's too much. I don't want to allow myself to do this to you.”

“But I want it. I've asked you for it. Do you want me to beg? Do you want to take a knife and pretend you've threatened me?? _This is what you've wanted too, isn't it, to fuck me as hard as you possibly could???”_

Uh-oh, thinks the MouSe. Now Havelock is getting out of control with the bizarre way he's talking, and now the multiple questions marks.

There is no answer. 

Then a growl. “Get off me and don't touch me again.”

“I'd like to...hold you. Just hold you for a bit.”

“That wasn't on offer.”

“Well, if you still want something—I could do—the mouth thing. I'd like that.”

And Vimes would, he realizes. Take Vetinari's cock into his mouth, give reciprocally.

“Thank you, I don't require that.”

“But...”

“No, you'll have to be content that I offered you something you found offensive, and you refused. We've had a pleasant interlude, and now we both have other chores. I have a city in ruins, and you have a woman to bed. Goodbye, Captain Vimes.”

It would have ended just like that if there hadn't been a trickle of narrativium from the MouSe: 'don't let him boss you around, he got himself into a tangle he was too proud to admit bothered him as well. You still have the element of surprise because he's trying to sit up, regain his icy demeanor—don't let him go!'

There is a grunting sound as of a body pushed down firmly. The mattress exudes a bit more dusty air.

“No. You're not leaving yet. I'm not through with you.” 

The surprised Patrician yields to a strong arm across his body, and an unexpectedly competent mouth over his cock, drawing out pleasure and letting it subside, resisting all the minimal effort the Patrician makes to escape and push Vimes off. But escape isn't happening. Samuel knows how to circle his hand below the root, holding firmly so Havelock can't come, when he really _has_ to come, and a tongue is sucking him. Then the arm over his body loosens, moves, pinches on the nipples as Havelock taught him minutes ago.

Vetinari feels a mouth more experienced than he'd have thought—he isn't the first man inside this mouth. Oh gods that's an interesting thought. He imagines—all right, he's not as pure as Samuel. Vetinari can accept wider and— _much_ more dubious fantasies. How many men, oh _how_ many rugged and rough-veined penises has Vimes, Sir Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh-Morpork, opened his mouth for? _This_ mouth, working over him? Did he want all of them or—was he ever...ordered to his knees...?

Havelock has no problem at all with this fantasy, and in fact can extend it quite a bit further. They think he just reads music in the evening and plays Thud. They are wrong.

There is no sound except breathing, which is irregular and doesn't change. Then there is a hitch in the breath and he comes.

Then Havelock frees his arms and puts them around Samuel, not a prisoner, not a captive, but his lover, for tonight anyway, in a tight, tight hug as though trying to capture time. Neither wants to leave, and Havelock pulls a quilt over them, keeping their skin warm. A shuffle of position leaves Samuel curling around Havelock, arm thrown over him possessively.

The scene begins the fade to black, as the MouSe sits still a moment. Just before Vimes closes his eyes, he cuts a glance over to the wash cabinet. A single glance, a tiny quirk of the lips, and the Mary Sue blinks, surprised. Did she catch that correctly? He accepted her tiny push of stage direction? But both are asleep now, and time for her to scamper away, content.

**Author's Note:**

> You people have no idea how hard it was to get Vetinari to give up, for this piece, some of his more complicated and baroque fantasies.


End file.
